Nature Finds A Way
by LadyNRA
Summary: Mixmaster is doing damage again and Burt, along with a very reluctant Twitchell, must find and destroy the critters.
1. Chapter 1

Author: LadyNRA

Fandom: Tremors – The Series

TEAM: Twitchell/Burt

RATING: Bordering on PG-13 (some tame sensuality)

ARCHIVE: Lemme know if that's what you want to do

DISCLAIMER: Thanks to Universal Studios and Stampede Entertainment, as well as the SciFi Channel for the creation of various aspects of Tremors. They own the characters, not me. To coin a phrase from a fellow fanfic writer, "I'm just playing with 'em, and I'm not making money off of 'em, so there's no need to sic the litigators on me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First, this story started with a challenge. I had jokingly told a fellow fan that I could write a romance scene for just about any character and she basically dared me to do it. Once that was done, I decided to follow up with a full story, ending the story somewhere around 2003. Second, the following story is a no-brainer. Really. For you purists out there who love the tech info about guns and military strategy, this story isn't going to fit the bill. It is, pure and simple, a light-hearted romp through the Tremors universe (with some very serious moments thrown in). So if you are entering "my" version of Perfection this day, you will find things a bit less obsessive (even for me) than normal. I ask only that you read it for fun, not to figure out ways for Burt to handle the situation better. Thanks to Shadoe, my beta – reader. Any mistakes are mine.

NATURE FINDS A WAY

Ravenous hunger…voracious…driving…a pulse-pounding need to feed drove a creature on through the night, despite the equally overwhelming sensation of pain which screamed constantly for relief. Blood continued to ooze from several wounds in its legs, droplets flowing downward with each step it took. It paused, raising one leg toward its mouth, licking off its own bodily fluids, growling demonically as its mind sensed the white heat of pain this action produced. Its primitive instincts battled with one another, rest versus food, until hunger won out, and it once more went in search of prey.

Moonlight, filtering through a few errant clouds, drifted downward, blanketing the earth beneath. The light skipped and danced over trees and paved streets, hopping over shadows, rooftop to rooftop, in the sleepy town of Bixby, Nevada. Normally bustling during the daylight hours, this growing community was spreading out like ivy, healthy and vibrant despite the desert terrain surrounding it. Careful planning by wise zoning committees had seen that the town prospered without outgrowing its own local resources, namely water and power.

On the northeast side of Bixby, lay the Briarwood Subdivision. It was clearly not an affluent community, but neither was it a poor one. Almost identical in the moonlight, each abode was neatly designed, spacious…a not-so-subtle beacon of middle class mediocrity. But, for Bixby, it was one of the more desirable areas to live. Good schools, close to shopping, close to the community hospital and county offices, all led to its desirability. As developer Melvin Plug had told prospective buyers when the community was nothing but a mess of framing on foundations dotting the barren landscape … "Location, location, location."

Not far above the roof tops, flitting through the branches of the few trees large enough to provide shade, a bat hunted its dinner. Spying a particularly fat and juicy moth, the flying creature darted forward. The moth was fluttering down toward the lights below, emanating from a break in the curtain of a sliding glass door. The bat drove forward on membranous wings. Then its sonar detected the window that weak eyes couldn't possibly see; and it veered off, physically offended by the muted incandescent light flashing into its eyes.

Inside the house, a TV played some movie, without an audience. A husband, dressed in maroon silk pajamas, and his wife, similarly dressed in gold to match her eyes, walked down the hall, and slowly, quietly opened the door to a room decorated with a wide variety of sports paraphernalia and posters.

It was a typical room for an eight year old boy, toys and Game Cube discs still where they'd been dropped, clothes strewn everywhere. Softly, the mother sighed. She'd been through the routine more times than she could count. Once their energetic son made his mad dash for the school bus in the morning, she'd be in there picking everything up once again. Together, two heads leaned in to make sure their blond-haired cherub was soundly asleep. After expending all the energy he usually did during the day, it was no surprise to either parent that the boy was practically comatose and didn't stir even when the woman planted a soft kiss on his brow.

The husband's smile flashed at her through the semi darkness. It made his whole countenance light up, and the sight put an instant grin on her face. Together, hand in hand, like young lovers rather than the long-married couple they actually were, they walked into the den, and turned the volume on the TV down a notch.

Not letting go of her hand, the husband sat down first, settling back into the soft cushions with a loud sigh until he was comfortable, then gently pulled his wife forward. Carefully, she sat crossways in his lap, legs extending out on the couch. She settled back against her husband's left arm, which was resting atop the arm of the couch, until she felt that hand settle onto her shoulder.

For a few moments, in quiet voices, they talked about events that couldn't be mentioned in front of their son, as his fingertips lightly stroked her shoulder and the nape of her neck where chestnut curls fanned outward, cascading over his hand. As he kneaded the day's tension from her muscles, she tilted her head back slightly, and leaned into his upper body. Shifting slightly, she slid closer still, laying her head on his upper chest, and sighing at the pleasure of his touch. For a few moments, eyes closed, she listened to the distant, muffled sound of his heartbeat and relaxed at its soothing familiarity.

A hand gently cupped her cheek, drawing her head back, while his thumb stroked her supple, satiny skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and gazed into those of her husband…a beautiful shade of green, she thought to herself for at least the thousandth time. His gaze locked on her for but a moment, before his head dipped, and his lips touched hers in a kiss that was brief and perhaps a bit playful. That one caress was followed in quick succession by several others just like it, from one corner of her mouth to the other, then the tip of her nose, and both closed eyelids, until he had her giggling.

"Ah, so it's going to be like that, is it?" She asked with a grin that was quickly smothered by another quick kiss.

"Mmm," came the noncommittal response, as his mouth left a fiery trail across her cheek, over her jaw, and down to the hollow of her neck just below one delicate earlobe.

Slowly, her hand tenderly brushed his cheek, then she moved his head back so that their lips could meet again. This time, the embrace turned more ardent, deepening, long and sweet, driving her pulse into a slow gallop.

As they kissed, one long-fingered, almost delicate hand, reached out to stroke the line of his jaw. Her index finger traced it's way from his chin, down his neck, through the hairs that curled out above the material, and onto the first button of his shirt, which she opened quickly. And then on down to the next button which yielded just as easily. With nothing barring her hand anymore, she slid her fingers along the plane of his chest, enjoying the sensation of silky hair and warm skin beneath her fingertips. Playfully, she traced little circles on his skin with her well-manicured nails, until she felt his breath quicken.

His free hand, which had previously been stroking her side, slid beneath the top she wore, over her ribs, and higher still, touching her in that experienced way that made her forget everything but the motion of his skilled fingers and the pressure of his mouth on hers. Reflexively, she arched her body into that hand, moaning softly in anticipation.

In the next moment, a cannon blast of sound ripped through her, and the world exploded in stars before her closed eyelids, as activity not of their own making surged in through their kitchen door.

A male voice, harsh, yet oddly melodic at the same time, boomed, "Twitchell, we need to talk…now!"

Another voice, somewhat western in its easy drawling style, cut in, "Uh, Burt, I told you, you really gotta learn to knock first, cuz…!"

The man and woman sitting on the couch, locked in what would soon have been a very passionate embrace, literally jumped off the couch. Or to be more accurate, the man, jumped, and the woman just plain flew off, landing in a heap at his feet.

Torn between the desire to strangle the two men who had just barged in on them and the instinctive need to help his wife, W. D. Twitchell got momentarily tangled up in her legs, and in a vain effort to keep from hurting her, nevertheless ended up in the very position they probably would have ended up in had they not been so rudely interrupted.

"Walter, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind a few moments ago," his wife said softly, staring into his green eyes with an intensity that said he was in serious trouble if he didn't deal with the intruders immediately.

"That does it!" Twitchell growled as he struggled to rise in as dignified a manner as possible under the circumstances, but the woman, lying beneath him, had already noted the growing fury in his eyes. Not wanting to see her husband's name in the local paper associated with the words 'assault and battery', she grabbed him by the lapels of his pajama top, and said in a curious tone of voice, "That them?"

"Oh yah," he said, voice oozing sarcasm and gaining in volume and pitch with each word, "That's them all right And I'm gonna freakin' kill 'em both as soon as you let me up!"

By this point, he had managed to get up on all fours, but "Mrs. Twitchell", after seeing still greater anger in his expression, had no intention of releasing him just yet. From that undignified position, both husband and wife looked at their guests.

The tall, thin man, armed to the teeth, and dressed in desert camos, didn't bat an eyelash at what he'd just done, as if he was totally oblivious to their discomfort. The other fellow, dark haired, handsome, well-built, thrust his hands out in an expansive shrug.

"Let me guess," she said as she finally released her husband who was slowly getting to his feet. Still laying on the floor in casual repose, she crossed her legs, and placed both hands behind her head. "The guy with the gun and no sense of propriety is Burt Gummer? Right?"

"Yes, and I'm gonna take that gun and ram a 'sense of propriety' right up his…"

"Be nice, Walt," his wife cut him off, and continued in perfectly calm and rational voice, "And let's see, the Marlboro man here has got to be Tyler."

"Ma'am," Reed acknowledged with a smile, touching the brim of his cowboy hat briefly by way of a greeting. "I'm real sorry about this. Burt is…well, Burt, ya know?"

Gummer glared at Tyler's lack of support in this situation but thought better of arguing. He had come all this way to talk to Twitchell, and that was precisely what he was going to do.

Twitchell stood, looked at his wife laying there in such a relaxed manner, and said, "Hold that thought, I don't intend on being gone long." Then he turned to Burt and Tyler, who hadn't budged from the spots they'd stopped in. "You two, outside!"

"Don't keep him long, boys, you hear? It's no fun carrying without him."

Tyler flashed a wide grin. "I understand completely. We'll have him back inside before the sofa even gets cold."

Twitchell, considerably shorter and more portly than either visitor, blasted between them with surprising agility, and both men followed him out the door into the moonlight. Once on the grass, and a good distance from the kitchen door, he rounded on them, venting all the frustration he was feeling in a rush of colorful invective and creative insults which covered all territory from their questionable parentage to their insane desire to continue dwelling in a living 'hell on earth'.

The two men from Perfection bore the verbal assault with stoicism, waiting on the DOI agent to finish his barrage of commentary. Eventually, Twitchell wound down. He ran a hand quickly over his nearly hairless scalp and drew a long deep breath.

In a more collected tone of voice, he asked, "And how the hell did you get my address? I don't remember ever having given it to you. You are supposed to contact me through the proper channels, not…not…" and he waggled one index finger at the kitchen door.

"Look, we said we're sorry, Twitch. But Burt's right. This really is important. And he has the connections, you know that. Locating you was easy. Anonymity is not something easy to find in a small town like Bixby."

"All right, all right, all right!" he blurted out, holding both hands up in supplication. "I get the point." Once again, he heaved a forbearing sigh.

At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the homes, rustling the branches on the trees separating the 'ranchettes'. Without knowing why, Twitchell shivered, reminded of the old clichéd saying about 'ill winds blowing no good' or something like that. Then, he realized his pajama shirt was still half open, and rebuttoned it before continuing.

"All right. Now, what was this 'important' news that couldn't wait 'til morning."

Lightly stroking his dark mustache before speaking, as if, for once, he was planning on choosing his words carefully, Burt Gummer said, "Something has happened." He paused, his mind warring between blurting out the facts, which he typically preferred, versus presenting the information in a manner Twitchell could tolerate without going ballistic. Against his better instincts and love for quick thinking and even quicker action, he looked to Tyler, ever the diplomat, for assistance.

Tyler was quite content to play the role of 'ambassador' even if the news was hardly pleasant. "You remember you once made a comment out of that movie, uh, what was it? "Jurassic Park". You were quoting that line about the dinosaurs reproducing…"

"Yeah, yeah, 'nature finds a way'. And I also said I was sure one day it would happen for real. I recall even Gummer agreed with me. So what about i- Suddenly, he shut up, a look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, as he struggled to give voice to the very thing he feared most, the thing that gave him almost perpetual nightmares. "Something got out?" he finally croaked in a voice at least an octave above his normal range.

Both visitors slowly, despondently, nodded in unison.

Twitchell suddenly slapped one palm against his thigh, then silently, slowly, turned around once, arms wide, glaring up at the heavens. When he stopped, he put both hands to his head, rubbing the bald pate as if he could massage away the news.

"When? How?"

Speaking barely above a whisper, Burt stated, "About 1900 hours, a honeymooning couple came into Perfection, took a quick look around, had dinner at Jodi's, and took off for Bixby again. About 90 minutes later, police found the car about 6 miles from here, on the _south side_ of the pass into Bixby. The car looked like it had hit something big. The windows in the car were broken out. Two bodies inside, both stabbed in the chest or abdomen."

"Could have been a case of 'road rage' after an accident." Twitchell asked hopefully; however, a fine sheen of sweat was already covering his skin in an almost luminescent glow thanks to the radiance of the full moon. Deep down, he _knew_ the answer already. Gummer saw that knowledge reflected in the set of his features.

"Negative." Gummer stated flatly, with finality. He fixed the DOI agent with a piercing stare.

"The bodies were bloated," Tyler added, trying to hide the disgust in his voice. "Horribly swollen up like they'd been poisoned or something. I was on an…errand…near here and was on my way back when I saw it. Also-"

Twitchell let his chin drop to his chest, and he stared numbly at his bare feet, no longer enjoying the coolness of the well-manicured lawn sprouting up between his toes. "Also?" he ground out between clenched teeth.

Burt finished answering the question. "The thing was wounded. There was a small amount of green blood on the street where the impact occurred. Its blood trail lead back to the valley, so at least it isn't roaming around Bixby. Tyler called me immediately, and I came out. Since nobody knew what to do with the blood, I suggested to Boggs that they light it up, incinerate it—"

Somewhat offended at this news, Twitchell put his hands on his hips and drew himself up to his full height, which still had him staring up into Burt's face. "And why wasn't I called? He knows I'm the one who's supposedly in charge of _anything_ and _everything_ that pertains to that friggin' valley."

Softly, Burt replied, "He said your phone was busy for a _very_ long time."

In the silvered light, Burt saw Twitchell grimace. "Lisa…she must've made sure there were no incoming calls for a while," he explained weakly.

"In any case, much as it pains me to admit it, you were quite correct in your earlier assessment of the potential for this event occurring. I knew the odds of course, but hoped, with careful monitoring of activities within the valley, we could…" He paused, eyes momentarily closing. "Well, whatever this thing is…was…it got outside of the valley, presumably by walking out via the roadway."

With a shake of his head, Twitchell muttered, "They aren't paying me _nearly_ enough to do this freakin' job!"

Slowly, he turned at the sound of the screen door opening. A woman's figure darkened the doorway, and a voice drifted gently toward them. "You boys interested in some coffee?"

As Burt and Tyler turned to look at the speaker, Twitchell, behind them, drew a finger across his neck, trying to let his wife know what he thought of the offer. Then he gestured an emphatic "no" with his both hands but cut it short as Tyler caught the motion. His wife, now wearing a light robe, leaned back against the door frame, arms crossed, and patiently waited for an answer.

Burt shocked the other two men by replying, "Black, no sugar."

Tyler looked at Burt in surprise. Then he glanced at Twitchell and shrugged. "She know about what's been going on in the valley?" he wondered aloud.

Looking at his wife as she passed the window nearest the sink, he nodded, and in a voice tempered by sadness, said, "Not to begin with, but I couldn't keep it a secret long. She waited for me one day in my office, and found some reports concerning Mixmaster on my desk. She had no idea what she was looking at at first." He hesitated a second. "If you want the truth, I'm glad I have someone to talk to about it. And, if I ever have to tell her to grab Ryan and keep heading south, she won't need to ask why. I kept hoping it wouldn't be necessary any time soon, but now I'm not so sure."

Burt, uncharacteristically quiet, waited until the man finished. After a year of knowing, and thoroughly disliking Twitchell, he had never gotten so much personal information out of the guy. And he considered all information worthy of hearing, even as he separated the wheat from the chaff.

As if realizing he was saying more than he ever intended, Twitchell simply strutted back to the house, jerked the door open, and waved his uninvited 'guests' inside.

Lisa Twitchell, padding quietly around the kitchen, was setting out plates, forks, and a crumb cake, in case anyone was hungry, and a set of coffee mugs with various themes, onto a oak kitchen table. This included one she set in front of her husband which said STRESS, and had a cartoon of a crazed and yowling cat clinging to a window screen.

A quick smirk pulled at one corner of Twitchell's mouth, but he quickly covered it with a frown as he looked at Burt.

"Walt? You want me to go off to the bedroom, while you and your…guests… talk?"

Instead of replying, Twitchell silently took her hand, much as he had earlier, and walked her back to the den, where he leaned in close, clearly whispering in her ear. After a very brief comment or two, he lightly kissed her, and let her sit down. Burt noticed the distance wasn't so far that she couldn't hear if she wanted to, but not so far that she would feel like she was being pushed aside.

As if aware of his perusal, the woman gave him a quick assessing glance, then reached for the remote to nudge the volume on the TV up a bit.

For the next 30 minutes, Burt and Tyler filled in any additional details skipped over earlier. They discussed the spoor left behind, both tracks and blood, trying to decide what kind of creature they would need to look for. They talked about the ramifications of insects feeding on the blood in the street. They haggled with the DOI agent for equipment and ammo they thought they might need to combat this unknown menace, and grudgingly got assurances that it would be provided by morning. Plans were made for pick up of their supplies from the Department of the Interior warehouse by noon, since it would take at least the remainder of the night and part of the next morning to get the requested items on Burt's wish list brought in from other sources.

"I'll call Boggs and see if I can't talk him into setting up a squad car and two officers at the head of the pass to alert us if something is trying to get through."

"Good idea, Twitch," Reed stated as he finished his cup of coffee.

"Twitch"'s gaze hardened at the use of this name, accustomed to being called that, but disliking their use of it nonetheless.

"Reed, I'll authorize you to take delivery of the supplies."

"Fine with me, 'cept I think Burt would rather examine the—"

"—munitions?" Burt completed the sentence.

"Yup. Examine the munitions himself."

Burt got up and put his cup in the sink. "Twitchell's correct. Not this time. I've got other things to do. You know what I'm expecting. You can handle this. While you're busy getting the supplies, I am going to do a reconnaissance of the south end of the valley at first light. Try to get a jump on this thing if I can."

Similarly, Tyler got up and put his empty mug where it belonged, and stood at Gummer's side.

As if drained of all energy, Twitchell simply sat there, shoulders hunched, elbows on the table. One hand rubbed a spot above his left eye. Reed thought he looked like a man who seriously needed to down a half dozen painkillers. With a guilty shrug and quick nod toward the door, he and Burt walked out, back into the night from which they came.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

0530, an ungodly hour for most sane people, found Burt Gummer already up and mobile. The power wagon was packed with all the usual necessities, the most important of which were his weapons, ammo, walkie talkies, CB radio, MRE's, and enough fresh water to last the day. Laid carefully lengthwise in the bed of the power wagon was his Barrett .50. He wasn't sure he'd need it but the evidence pointed to a creature larger than he'd want to face without some serious firepower. In addition to the M82A1, he'd placed two other rifles of differing calibers, both of which had decent 'punch', each set up for full auto if he thought he needed it. Experience with Mixmaster was teaching him that whatever survived the mutation process tended to replicate itself in some manner, and he didn't want to get caught under-prepared for anything less than an all-out war against multiple invaders.

In short order, he gave Jodi his itinerary, then got on the main highway, breezing past the tiny town of Perfection, and was on his way toward the mountain pass into Bixby. He veered off the highway onto a dirt road heading east. There was a bit more scrub brush here, some greenery, and short, sparsely spread out trees, thanks to some small springs which only dried out at the height of the summer dry season. He spend the next hour driving through the area, keeping his eyes open for anything unusual.

A creature big enough to crush the front of a car had to be big as a cow, and something like that shouldn't have been able to hide easily. It didn't take long to pick up some odd looking tracks. Taking an M-16 rifle out of the back, he crouched before the marks in the dirt, and brushed at the edges with one long, gloved finger. The marks were reasonably fresh, not more than 8 hours old, he guessed, and not evenly spaced. Even if he hadn't noticed the greenish brown splatters mingling with the tracks, he would have guessed the thing wasn't moving naturally.

Gazing up at the sun as it gained in height and intensity, he retrieved his canteen and started to walk a bit farther up the trail. His long sure stride had him covering ground quickly. In no time at all, he drew up to the base of the canyon wall.

_So far so good_, he thought to himself. Any time there were no rude surprises, he was content. But then, as if to make a liar out him, he heard a clacking noise, and the sound of rock brushing against rock. Tensing up, he edged forward as soundlessly as was humanly possible.

The path curved off around a bend, which he cautiously approached, his back pressed up against the warm stone. Jagged pieces of the rock poked into his flesh but he remained almost unaware of it, so intense was his concentration. With exquisite slowness, he peered around a covering boulder and saw…it…

The creature hissed. But not like a snake. He couldn't place the sound but it made hairs on his neck stand at attention, and set the muscles along his spine to spasming. Dust blew up from its multiple, multi-jointed legs at it struggled to rise, but it was failing miserably.

Eventually it did manage to right itself, and stood there, weaving unsteadily. On closer inspection, Burt noticed the brown fur, with two cream stripes running down its length, which did nothing to conceal the green blood leaking from the injuries it had sustained. But what made Burt grip his rifle tighter was the long appendage thrashing behind it. Segments visible through the fur, it arched over the creatures back, a single needle sharp, claw shaped stinger extending toward where Burt hid. A single clear droplet oozed from the tip of the stinger, falling unheeded on the back of the animal.

As it turned its razor toothed feral face toward where Burt stood hidden, it let out a fearsome growling bellow that sounded like an enormous cat in heat. Not wanting to second guess the creature, he brought the rifle to his shoulder, peered once again from behind the boulder, instantly sighted in, and sent a bullet slamming into the gaping mouth of the monstrosity. It shook its weasel-like snout, and gazed in his general direction. Another quick shot took it in the body, where a heart should have been but nothing seemed to happen. Setting the rifle on full-auto, Burt sent a steady stream of bullets full into the face of the creature until it collapsed into a twitching heap.

Once the palsied movement of the legs ceased, Burt came out of his hiding place, and carefully advanced toward the beast, his finger still over the trigger. When he was about 30 feet from it, he stooped and selected a couple of plum sized stones and hurled them full force into the body. He was greeted with a hard cracking sound but other than that, there was no movement.

An equally cautious nudge to one extended appendage that had 5 distinct mammalian looking toes ending in little sharp claws, yielded nothing. The creature, by all appearances, had finally been killed. But not easily, Burt had to admit. A closer examination of the bloody head revealed two large black eyes, a black snout, and mouth filled with needle sharp teeth. It was a head much like something in the weasel family, wolverine perhaps, and the tail could only have been from scorpion DNA. Scorpions were plentiful in this part of the state, and they were scavengers, feeding off of dead things when live prey couldn't be had. Burt realized all this and anger surged through him. Of course, he'd known Mixmaster was involved. But seeing this present mutation once again fueled his ire at the Proudfoot Corporation and their stupidity in not destroying everything in the underground lab before they left.

Using his Bushmaster knife, Burt grabbed the 'tail', careful to avoid the stinger, and hacked off the end of it, barb and all. This wasn't easy going, as he soon discovered just why body shots were ineffective. The whole thing beneath its tough, leathery, hide was covered in a sort of exoskeleton. Not thick enough to stop a round from his beloved "Betsy", but enough to deflect distance shots from the M16. Only the face and throat area seemed vulnerable, with larger gaps between the plating, and no such protection inside its nasty looking maw.

"Glad my wish list includes something with some punch to it," he said to the now deceased animal. "Because if you have any siblings out there, I sure as hell am gonna need it.

Tyler Reed was already waiting for him, when he got back to Perfection. He was nursing a soda.

"You're early," Burt said without preamble."

"Good morning to you to," Tyler said after taking another swallow from the can.

Burt shot him a 'tell me what's going on already' but didn't voice his thoughts. He waited on the ex-NASCAR driver to fill him in as he accepted a cup of black coffee from Jodi.

Tyler sighed, "Okay, I'm back early because the DOI guys were quicker than usual. They scrounged up what you wanted, and cussed me out for being pushy enough to request it in the first place."

"We didn't order it," Burt stated mildly. "Twitchell did."

"Yeah, but they know that if Twitch orders something, it's because we ask for it."

"And they'd be right, now, wouldn't they? So why worry over it."

Though the tone was bland, Tyler suspected something wasn't quite normal. "You get up on the wrong side of the cot this morning?" he asked in a perfectly calm tone of voice.

Burt didn't respond for nearly a full minute and Tyler waited him out. When the survivalist didn't want to talk, no amount of torture was going to make him speak any sooner.

"I killed it. And yes, it was Mixmaster again. Big thing. Easy to see why it was able to walk up the road and out of the valley. It was half dead when I found it, wounded like you'd expect after the blood trail we saw."

Taking another slow sip of the steaming liquid, he took a slow deep breath before continuing. "Wasn't easy to kill either. Even wounded, presumably dying, I entered nearly a full magazine into it before it went down for good."

"That's not good news," said Tyler, stating the obvious in an almost sarcastic way.

"No. It's not," Burt agreed. "What killed those poor folks was a poison injected by a stinger of some sort. Looks like a standard scorpion sting but 50 times the size. That much venom would kill a human in seconds, even if the blow itself didn't kill the person."

"Did you take it to Casey to look at?"

Shaking his head pensively, Gummer replied, "I went to her lab, but Dr. Matthews wasn't around. I tried to see if she was in the vicinity but there was no sign of her."

From behind the counter, Jodi spoke for the first time. "That's because she was called away on some personal matter. She came in right after you flew past here this morning. Said she'd be gone at least a week."

"Wonderful," Burt muttered, his tone definitely sarcastic this time. Finally, he turned to look at Tyler. "Okay, it doesn't matter. We know the people hit something big, with green blood. This creature matched the size and description. The couple were apparently gored to death and yet died from some other cause. That cause was probably the venom. I'll bet if we called Boggs, he'd tell us as much. So the initial 'problem' has been summarily executed. I dumped gasoline on it and lit it up before I left to prevent too many insects and lizards from feeding on the carcass."

"But you don't believe that was the end of the story," Tyler stated.

"What does your gut tell you?"

"That there may be more of these things."

"Precisely. How many more, I can't say. I didn't see anything. I did a partial sector check afterward, and saw nothing, but there's a lot of territory to cover. If this is the first outbreak of these things, they may not have wandered too far from where they were birthed, or hatched, or spawned or whatever it was they did to get here." This time, there was no mistaking the disgust in his voice.

"When do you want to go out again?"

Burt finished the remainder of his cooling beverage in two swallows. "As soon as we transfer the extra weapon and ammo to my power wagon. But first I want to call our _Friendly _Federale."

True to his word, Burt did apprise Twitchell of what he'd found and how he'd killed the creature, plus a few minor details. Then he went outside to help his partner. The transfer was finished quickly, and both men bid adieu to Jodi and returned to the site of the earlier battle. Tyler saw the blackened carcass, and held his breath from the stench that pervaded the area from burned hair and roasted innards.

"Lovely fragrance," he commented to no one in particular. "So what now? Continue to expand the search?"

"Precisely, but be on your guard. This thing was wounded and not moving fast but I suspect a healthy one will be considerably quicker."

The warning, while appreciated and implemented, turned out to be a waste of time. They patrolled the whole southern end of the valley, both east and west of the highway, and the search yielded nothing but a tour of scrub brush, tumbleweeds, rocks, rocks, and more rocks. Even El Blanco was suspiciously absent, as if the giant subterranean worm didn't want to hassle with the creatures.

Once they got a good look at the immediate area, they decided it was time to go back to his bunker for a strategy meeting. Afterward, they went to Jodi's for some dinner, filling her and Rosalita in on what they discovered and their plans for the next day.

As they ate in near silence, the evening stillness was broken by the sound of a large fast moving vehicle screeching down the highway. It came to a sliding stop in front of Chang's Market, highlights on bright and blinding anyone who looked in their direction.

Burt slowly unfolded his long body and began to stride toward the door. He never got near it before two youthful male bodies plunged through. They looked crazed, wild, disheveled. The young men rushed into the center of the store, panting, trying to catch their breath but rest did nothing to help. Finally, they noticed Burt, or rather Burt's Desert Eagle pistol, and converged on him, both talking at once.

"Hold on, slow down there!" Burt ordered with hands raised. "One at a time. One…at…a…time."

Finally, the younger of the two managed to blurt out a word that was all too commonly used in the valley. "Monster! Monster!" He pointed toward the south. "There! Really!"

"What did it look like?" Burt asked, letting his voice soften. No use making them panic further by firing a quick barrage of questions at them. "Come on, just sit down. The both of you. And tell me what you saw."

"It's coming!" The older one yelled.

Shaking his head and capturing their attention with gentle brown-eyes, Burt patted the man's shoulder. "Relax. Nothing is near." He straightened and fixed Tyler with a hard stare and a barely perceptible pointing of his chin toward the door.

Sauntering casually past them, Tyler went outside to take a look and possibly sound the alarm if what the men said was true.

"Now, let's hear what happened."

"Big thing, mean…ugly looking. Looked like a…a…badger, weasel, I don't know. But it had a lot more legs than it should have. I caught it in our headlights as we were heading up near the pass. It was crossing the road." He paused to take another deep breath. "When it saw us, it turned and charged. I—I got scared. I mean, I'd never seen anything like it. So I slammed the car into reverse, did a 180 first chance I got, and drove like hell to get out of there."

Burt paced in a tight line near them but stopped to face them before saying, "Okay. I'll check it out first chance I get. Unfortunately, you don't have much choice but to head back the way you came so I suggest you take it real slow. By now that thing is probably long gone but you keep your eyes open anyway. You hear?

The two men nodded, bought a couple of sodas to wet their parched throats, and ran back to their vehicle. They left much as they had arrived, leaving Burt standing there and shaking his head sadly. So much for taking decent advice, he thought.

After the young guys had disappeared in a haze of dust, Burt casually walked to the pay phone and dialed Twitchell's emergency number. The dispatch operator rerouted the call to the DOI agent's home. Burt got a busy signal. He continued to try for an hour, then two, with patience slipping away with every minute.

Eventually he walked over to Reed's garage where the handsome young man was already preparing for bed, and said, "Time to get ready."

"For what?"

"We're going for a drive," Burt stated bluntly. "Twitchell's line's been busy for almost two hours."

"Oh no! We are staying here."

"We need Twitchell in on this as we discussed, and he has to know what's happened ASAP."

"I'm telling you, I don't care if Twitch's line was busy for two hours or five hours. This can wait till morning. There's no way I want to show up on the guy's doorstep again after what we did to him last night."

"Nonsense, Tyler, some things just take precedence and this is one of them."

"Burt, now I know you're going to embarrass us both if you go banging on their door at this hour."

"Not my fault if I can't reach them by landline."

"But it will be your fault if you make a personal appearance instead. Give him a break. Wait till morning. Let me get some sleep." For emphasis he forced a not-so-authentic yawn. Burt, watched him stoically, maintaining a poker face, just to keep from yawning himself. Yes, he was tired, but not to the point where he wanted to admit it, let alone to give in and return to his bunker.

Instead, he returned to his power wagon, started it up, and turned the tow bar end in the general direction of Bixby.

Moaning in frustration, Tyler raced after the slow moving vehicle until he caught up to it and jumped into the passenger seat beside Gummer. "Okay, _now_ I'm awake."

"Glad you see the logic in this," Burt said with a smirk.

"I don't see any logic in this at all, Burt. I'm just going along on one of those mercy missions." Gummer looked at Tyler quizzically, so the brawny young man added, "You know, to beg for mercy on your behalf after he sees you tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

One of the few luxuries the Twitchells had invested in after purchasing their home had been the installation of an in-the-ground pool. It wasn't huge but was large enough to do short laps or dive off the board into the deep end, something their fearless son did repeatedly whenever allowed to go anywhere near the water. The perimeter of the pool was enclosed by a privacy fence to keep the neighborhood children, as well as their own son, from getting near the water when no adult was around. But there were a few other reasons the privacy fence had its advantages, and the couple had decided to indulge themselves, especially since the boy was having his first-ever sleepover with his friend from two doors down. That meant, for the first time in a good long while, they had the house _and_ the pool to themselves.

"Why do you keep looking toward the house?" Lisa asked as she swam past him, the bright, luminescent, moonlight reflecting like diamonds on her skin.

"I keep getting this spooky feeling that we aren't alone." Her husband sighed, even as his eyes took note of the fact that she had shed her one-piece suit. She waved it at him as if reading his mind, and casually tossed it to him. Without taking his gaze off her, he laid it down on the brick patio that surrounded the pool.

"Of course we're alone, silly. And if you are referring to Burt specifically, he has no reason to be anywhere near here. You said he killed the thing that attacked those poor people yesterday, and there were no more of them—"

"—that he knew of," her husband corrected.

"Whatever, Walt. Fact is there's no reason for us to be disturbed tonight, so come on and relax."

When he didn't respond, she swam over to him, pressing the full length of their bodies together, and kissed him soundly. It took a few moments for him to force his concerns out of his mind, but soon he was wrapping his arms around her and returning the embrace.

Suddenly, she pulled free with an impish grin on her pretty face. Then she murmured, "This has got to go!" and she dove under, pulling him down under the surface with her. There was some thrashing just below the water line, sending bubbles and chlorinated water spraying in all directions. When they surfaced, she sent his swim trunks sailing through the air, where the article of clothing landed with a wet 'plop' beside her swimsuit.

"There, now that's better, don't you think?"

"Much better," he smiled broadly, reaching for her, but like a water sprite, she disappeared again. He felt the motion of something brush against his calves and he quickly dove down to grab her. That got her to the surface, giggling, and coughing, and laughing some more. She made a concerted effort to get loose from his grasp by forcing handfuls of water into his face. He reciprocated with one broad hand half slapping, half pushing large waves at her. But he didn't let go. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened again, nowhere near tight enough to hurt her, but certainly enough to let her know that she wasn't going to slip free any time soon. Deciding that offense was the best defense, she tackled him with a move worthy of an NFL linebacker, sending the two of them backward toward the edge of the pool where their discarded garments still lay dripping onto the bricks.

This time, he laughed out loud, and without a word, pulled her close. "No graboids, no Perfection, no Gummer, and no child at home for a whole evening," he thought, "Can life get any better than this?"

His wife flashed a nymph-like smile at him. They'd never actually made love in a pool before but there was a first time for everything, and she was feeling adventurous this evening. She sighed deeply as his hands began to stroke her body, and she returned his kisses and caresses with an ardor equaling his own.

Suddenly, Twitchell froze, as the sound of a fist rapping on a storm door pierced the moment, killing any notion of finishing what had just gotten started. He placed his forefinger against her lips to keep her from commenting. His gesture told her that if she kept quiet, maybe their visitors would go away. But the fist was pounding louder, and he heard a familiar voice say, "They've gotta be here. The TV's on. I can hear it. And the same two vehicles are in the driveway."

"Maybe they saw you coming, and ran shrieking into the night."

Standing by the door, Gummer bestowed a withering glance on him. Hands on hips, he took a few seconds to look around the property. "What's that?" he queried, pointing a finger that the Twitchells couldn't see, but just _knew_ was pointed their way.

"It's a fence, Burt," was the mildly sarcastic response.

There was another pause from the tall, thin, survivalist. "Of course it's a fence," he said, sounding irritated. "I noticed it last night. What I want to know is, what's it fencing _in_?"

"How should I know!" Trying to be ornery on purpose, he added, "And how do you know it's fencing in anything. Maybe it's fencing something out, like us. So let's go." He gave Burt a pleading look which got lost in the semi-darkness. He was already suspecting what was behind that privacy screening, and exactly who was fencing them out.

But Burt Gummer was not about to be dissuaded when he was on a mission, so he confidently strode across the lawn, his long legs eating up the distance in a few steps. As his hand reached for the latch that would open the gate, he heard a muffled expletive and a loud splash from within the confines of the enclosure.

He didn't see two sets of hands grabbing for still-soaked swim suits, or see the thorn-in-his-side DOI agent hastily getting dressed without coming out of the water, nor did he notice the second figure, more slender than the first, disappear under water. Instead, he just opened the gate and walked in to see Twitchell leaning with his back to the wall of the pool, his arms spread wide across the rounded tiles bordering the edge of the pool. Only the back of his head, his arms, and shoulders were visible. In fact, he didn't even bother to look at them, and Tyler knew they were in deep doo-doo now. As the two men, tempting fate, drew closer, standing just behind Twitchell, a woman's head burst through the sparkling water, and drew a loud gasping breath as if she'd been holding her breath for a while. Despite the lack of decent lighting, Tyler could feel her eyes bore into him. This time around, he couldn't even bring himself to apologize.

In unison, both husband and wife pivoted to fully face the intruders who had so rudely interrupted what had initially promised to be a wonderful evening.

Twitchell glared evilly at them, raised one finger, and opened his mouth as if to say something truly nasty, but Burt was too preoccupied with his own need to deliver his message to notice.

"We need to discuss…" Gummer started to say without preamble when he unexpectedly saw Mrs. Twitchell surge out of the pool. Too shocked to move, Burt could only glance down at her as she rose out of the water, droplets flying all over his pants leg. Hands extended, she snagged both men around one knee and, arching her spine, heaved backward with all her strength. The two visitors, not anticipating this, felt themselves begin to pitch forward. As Twitchell, looking half shocked and half pleased, backpedaled to get out of their way, Burt struggled to stay upright, but even if he'd been born into the Wallenda family, he couldn't have saved himself. He hit the water in a thoroughly undignified manner, with Tyler close behind.

As both men struggled to stand in their sopping wet clothing, Burt heard a feminine voice yell, "Walt, run for your life," which was followed by the sound of bodies splashing up the steps, and the brief slapping of feet on brick. This was followed about 20 seconds later but the distinctive sound of a door opening and then slamming shut, along with the metallic click of a lock and a deadbolt being thrown into position.

By the time Tyler got out of the water, he was feeling in a foul mood. He wasn't, however, blaming Twitchell, or his wife for that matter. The object of his irritated state of mind was slogging up the steps, and moaning at the state of his water logged Desert Eagle and holsters. "Well, at least I left my wallet in the locked glove compartment", Burt muttered, as he tried unsuccessfully to wring water from his clinging BDUs.

"Now can we go home?" Tyler asked, clearly having lost what little patience he had left.

"No!" was the firm answer. "The fact that we need to tell Twitchell what we have planned hasn't changed." He left the pool enclosure followed by Tyler, who didn't need the moonlight to keep him behind the survivalist. All he had to do was follow the squishing of the combat boots to know he was heading in the right direction.

Instead of going directly to the back door, Burt returned to his power wagon and retrieved a medium size rucksack, then squished his way back to the kitchen door. Seeing Tyler's questioning look, he flashed a quick, satisfied grin and stated smugly, "Change of clothes. Pity you don't think ahead, like you should, Tyler. I always carry extras of all basic necessities. Just in case-."

"Just in case you rudely interrupt two people trying to get it on in their swimming pool?" he asked innocently. "Just in case they get so pissed off at you that they try to drown you in said swimming pool?"

"Why must you be so melodramatic?" Without waiting for an answer, Gummer continued to slosh his way over to the door, where he rapped…lightly, then hastily backed away from the door so that he was beyond an arm's length reach of 'man of the house'.

"Don't you get it, Gummer? Go home!" A male voice muttered from the other side of the door, but the classic Twitchell snicker that followed told Burt that they were probably both laughing at his expense. Since he never backed down from a fight with anyone, even the guy who could kick them all out of house and home, he rapped more firmly on the door.

Silence reigned for nearly 30 seconds. No one moved, at least not that Burt could tell. Finally, the curtains on the door parted and Burt found himself staring down into Twitchell's hopeful expression, a look that quickly turned sour when he saw that his nemesis was still standing there.

Tyler saw Twitch force air through pursed lips. "Dammit, Gummer, how many hints do we need to give you? Call me in the morning, and we'll talk."

"It will could be too late by then," Burt stated rather mysteriously.

There was the muffled sound of a female voice not far from Twitchell, and they heard him mutter, "The guys more tenacious than a pit-bull. He's gonna camp out there if we don't let him in."

"No," was the woman's response.

"He'll attract the attention of Mrs. Neidemeyer next door, and you know what that means."

A mild expletive drifted through the window panes. "Fine, let 'em in."

Burt heard the clack of a door lock and a dead bolt being opened. Slowly the wood door opened. Twitchell, having already donned a terry robe, reached forward to unlock the storm door as well, and stood back as the two sopping wet men stepped into the air conditioned house. Tyler drew his arms up his shoulders as the cool air inside pierced through the soaked clothing, making him feel like ice was being rubbed on his skin, and despite himself, he shivered.

On the other hand, Burt stood like a statue, stoic and serious, either totally oblivious to the discomfort or merely pretending he was not suffering. Mrs. Twitchell reentered the kitchen, wearing a pair of sweat pants, a baggy t-shirt, and a frown to match that on her husband's face. She also carried a laundry basket which had two large blankets folded inside. "The bathroom is down the hall over there, second door on the left. You put these on," she added, pointing to the blankets, "and I'll throw your stuff in the dryer."

"No need." Burt said succinctly. He held up the sack. "Dry clothes."

Twitchell's wife flashed him a look of disappointment. "Pity," she replied cryptically. The lack of a smile suggested she had wanted him to suffer a little embarrassment. Then she glanced at Tyler. "I presume from your empty hands that you aren't quite as well-prepared."

Tyler rewarded her with a sheepish grin. "'Fraid I'm not, ma'am." And without a further word he headed off to change before Burt could tie up the bathroom. He came out about 5 minutes later, with the blanket wrapped securely around him so that nothing showed but his head, hands, and bare feet. He threw his soaked clothing into the basket, and waited on Burt to come back. As expected, when he did return, his wet BDUs, except holster, weapons, and a small unidentified sack, had been rammed into the rucksack and were subsequently and promptly dropped out onto the outside steps. Tyler stifled a groan. Even the combat boots had been exchanged for heavily worn but dry ones.

While Tyler took a seat, carefully pulling the blanket tighter around his hips as he sat down, Burt pulled opened the sack and began laid out items designed to clean a gun. Without comment, Burt field stripped his pistol as completely as possible, and opened up the bore cleaner and lubricant containers in preparation for cleaning and oiling his weapon. As he worked, quickly and with great expertise, he muttered under his breath, ticked off at the mere thought of having his Eagle dunked in chlorinated water. In a matter of minutes, the pungent odor of gun oil permeated the air, making Tyler's nose wrinkle.

Sniffing at the air until his expression mirrored Tyler's, Twitchell disappeared around the corner. A minute or two later, they could hear the drum of the dryer tumbling away. They saw him head toward the main hall, and when he returned, he was dressed in a Cowboys football jersey and cargo shorts. Meanwhile, the aroma of fresh brewed coffee began to collide with that of the gun oil wafting through the kitchen.

Mugs of the steaming black beverage were handed to Tyler and Burt without comment. Lisa Twitchell bestowed upon her husband a similar mug, nearly filled with coffee, then pulled a small unopened bottle of Jack Daniels Bourbon from a high cabinet and poured a third of a shot glass worth of the liquid into his cup. "This'll warm me up," he told her with a smirk.

"That's what _I_ wastrying to do before we got interrupted," she spoke softly into his ear, while casting another evil glance at the visitors. She straightened, and walked away from them. Twitchell exhaled loudly, as he watched his wife's gently swaying hips disappear in the general direction of their bedroom and pondered if it was humanly possible for him to coax her back outside later on. He sighed again, wondering if she'd even talk to him for the rest of the evening. Oh, she'd never banish him to the couch like some wives might, but getting the cold shoulder and zero communication for the next couple of days was infinitely worse. The whole thought of what he was missing out on, two nights in a row, made him furious, and he glared daggers at Burt and Tyler who had, as yet to say anything, though Tyler had to decency to look embarrassed.

"Okay. Out with it. And this had _better_ be good. _Real _good!"

"Good isn't how I'd classify the problem." Burt said as he took a tentative sip of the still steaming liquid, while pointedly ignoring the steam figuratively pouring from the DOI agent's ears. "The creature I killed this morning wasn't one of a kind. There was another attack near the pass. Luckily they thought fast and it saved their lives."

Twitchell moaned like he was in pain, and allowed his head to drop onto his crossed forearms with enough of a thud to rattle the wood table. Without looking up, they heard him say, "You told me you checked the rest of the area and didn't find any signs of more."

"I was as thorough as usual," Burt answered, grimacing at the implication that he wasn't doing his job to the best of his ability. "And I'm not 100% convinced there are a lot of these things. This second one may be the last…or it could be just one of many."

Still not looking at them, Twitchell groaned again. "Freakin' Mixmaster! Why is it always sending us a bunch of friggin' man-eating mutated bugs. Especially giant man-eating mutated bugs." He raised his face, and rolled his eyes. "This is worse than any science fiction movie I've ever seen. I'm livin' in the frickin' Twilight Zone and you two are creatures from another dimension sent here to torment me, right? "

It was Burt's turn to sigh impatiently. "Suffice it to say that we need to make a concerted effort to find a nest if one exists. That means getting an early start tomorrow."

"And what does that have to do with me? You're the guy with the guns, so go ahead, kill it."

"Tyler and Rosalita are going to cover the southeast quadrant. You and I will take the southwest sector."

Twitchell's eyebrows just about hit the lamp suspended over the table. "Since when did I volunteer for this assignment?"

"As of the moment we became sure there were definitely more than one of these things. I need someone to help me search. Two sets of eyes will be better than one. Four sets, better still. We can cover more ground that way."

"Suppose I tell you I've got other plans, something a whole lot more fun that what you're proposing."

"Suppose I remind you that anything going on in Perfection ultimately falls into your area of responsibility. And what would your boss think if he knew you were intentionally ignoring the situation."

Twitchell's jaw dropped. "Why does that sound like a threat?"

"What goes around, comes around," Burt stated flatly, brown eyes glaring into green.

"You've got a real pair of _cajones_, you know that? Coming into my house, _twice_, in the middle of the night. And now you've got the gall to…to…" his voice began to take on an almost shrill tone, and both fists tightened until the knuckles turned white. He unconsciously leaned forward, his body assuming a pugnacious posture. Burt started to stand, looking equally combative.

Watching this exchange of supercharged emotions, images of a similar occasion flashed through Tyler's memory. A time when Burt had been furious enough at Twitch to literally shove open the door of his power wagon and leap forward. Two events had transpired that day to surprise him. The first was that Burt had lost control, even if momentarily; the second was that Twitchell hadn't so much as flinched or shown the slightest hint of fear.

Tyler grabbed a fistful of Gummer's sleeve. "Whoa! Whoa, Burt. Down boy. This is _not_ the way to go about this." He forcibly pinned Burt in his chair and moved closer to the DOI agent. "Look, we really do need your help. Jodi is tied up, and Nancy isn't around. That just leaves me, Burt, and Rosalita. And you. Now, the way I see it, anyone who is man enough to stand up to Burt is certainly man enough to help us out in our time of need."

"You are so full of it, Tyler." Twitchell said angrily, though he did look just the slightest bit pleased at the compliment. He continued in a quieter, more contemplative, tone of voice, "However, that misbegotten valley _is_ part of my jurisdiction, and my superiors would hand me my head on a platter if they thought I was shirking my responsibilities."

"Glad we can agree on that much." Burt stated. "Now, I typically wake up around 0500 hours. I'll expect you to meet me at the Perfection side of the pass around 0600."

"8:00"

"0600"

"7:30"

"0600. Don't try haggling with me. You may get away with doing it to Tyler but not with me."

"What have you got against sleeping in?"

Seeing the unyielding expression in Burt's dark eyes and taut lips, Twitchell threw his hands up in surrender. "All right already. 6 O'clock. I'll be there." His statement was punctuated by the alarm on the dryer sounding off, alerting Tyler that it was time to get himself 'decent', so they could be on their way. 0600 would be upon them all soon enough, and he wanted to be back in his bed for at least a few hours of sleep before having to start out on their search mission.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Five a.m. rolled around just as it did every day in the life of Burt Gummer, with him arising, relatively rested and looking forward to another hunt. Okay, so the creatures were as big as assblasters and twice as ugly. He felt his pulse begin to pound with anticipation. Every muscle in his body was preparing itself for the adventure ahead as adrenalin levels began to rise. He loaded the Chevy power wagon as quickly as he had the previous morning, though he threw in some extra ammo for his rifles, checked the supplies from the DOI, and loaded on some extra water. Unlike Burt, who was rarely unprepared for any contingency, Twitchell probably wouldn't even think about such necessities as food or water…or a hat, yeah, a hat. Going to one drawer in his workbench, he pulled out a fairly new, Perfection, Nevada baseball cap. It was another of those new things Jodi was experimenting with, in hopes of selling more novelties through her store. She'd given him one as a gesture of friendship. Aside from the one time he'd donned it to at least look as if he was flattered by the gift, he hadn't worn it again. This morning, he threw it in the back of his truck, just in case.

Tyler radioed him about 5 minutes later. "Hey Burt, you there?"

"Of course. You think I'm still lazing around in bed?"

There was a moment's silence, as Burt's surly mood registered. "Listen, I'm going to pick up Rosalita and will start searching the area ASAP."

"As soon as I pick up Twitchell we will begin our reconnaissance as well. Figure somewhere around the estimated time, unless Twitchell decides to stand me up."

"Not likely. You made your point last night. Just be nice to him, you hear."

There was another pregnant pause, this time from Burt's end of the conversation.

Sighing, the younger man said, "Hey, look at it this way. If you make him look bad, and they 'can' him, the next guy could be worse. Much worse. At least Twitch works with us…most of the time. We _know_ we can deal with him."

Tyler heard the end of a long exhale as Burt depressed the key on the radio. "Agreed. I'll return him in one piece. Just to make you happy, you understand."

"Thanks, Burt," Tyler responded, sounding at least marginally happy.

With the preliminaries over with, Burt hopped in his truck, started it up and headed south on the main highway.

When the alarm blared raucously at 5:00 in the Twitchell household, a hand slapped at the clock button a couple of times, unsuccessfully at first. It then took a considerable effort of self-will to disentangle himself from the warm and somnolent body of his wife. Somehow, without waking her, he managed to extricate himself. The trip to the master bathroom in the dark resulted in him catching his small toe on the edge of his armoire, eliciting a quick yelp and a whole string of foul words that miraculously never made it past clenched teeth. Hobbling the rest of the way, he found his clothes where he'd left them, folded neatly on the hamper lid. Out of habit, he got the water in the shower running, then realized he was only going to be riding through the disgustingly hot, dusty, and sticky desert terrain, in an open truck, for Lord knew how long. Grimacing, he shut the water off. Dress now, do the lousy search with Burt, shower later. That was the plan. At this time of the morning, that was the best plan he could conjure up.

What he really wanted was to crawl back under the covers. It was the weekend after all. But somehow, he managed to get dressed, and with eyes still heavy-lidded, he staggered out the front door to the driveway. He eyed his choices. The gold 200 horsepower Taurus wagon, Lisa's pride and joy, was definitely out. That left the blue Crown Victoria, the DOI vehicle reserved for his exclusive use.

Groaning as he sank into the seat, he fumbled with the keys, dropped them once, then again, before he managed to get the key in the ignition. To his chagrin, he discovered it was the Taurus key. Muttering a couple of mild obscenities, he finally found the correct key. And turned it. Nothing happened. He made another attempt. Not even the sound of the engine turning over could be heard.

"Freakin' Fords," Twitchell growled as he threw the door open and went to fetch his other set of keys and to hit the button on the garage door opener. By the time he got to the separate structure, the door was wide open and waiting for him to enter. Parked in one bay was a relatively new white Chevy Suburban, maxed out with all the luxuries that were available. About the only thing he cared about when buying it, however, was that there was a more-than-decent air conditioner, and a bass pumpin' sound system.

Once he got out of Briarwood, he slid a 70's hard rock hits CD into the player, selected "Trampled Under Foot" by Led Zeppelin, which seemed appropriate at the moment, even though the lyrics didn't match his current situation, and cranked up the volume.

By the time Twitchell got through the pass and into Perfection Valley, he was at least awake, if not particularly happy.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Burt checked his watch for the fourth time. It was about 6:10 and there was still no sign of Twitchell. Hating to be kept waiting when there was work to be done, Gummer found himself pacing alongside his vehicle, trying to work off some of the excess tension that was beginning to build.

He had selected a spot along side the roadway within easy view of anyone looking for him, but not so close that he was parked on the 'shoulder'. Finally, about 3 minutes later, a pair of large headlights pierced through the growing dawn light. He could easily tell that this wasn't Twitchell. The Crown Victoria didn't have such lights. Momentarily, he ground his teeth in frustration. First, he wanted to be going about his scheduled business. Second, he wanted to kill the mutant bastard who had gone after the car last night. He paced some more, and waited on the vehicle to pass.

"Stupid kids," he murmured. "Make themselves deaf with the loud music."

Instead, of passing him, it pulled up along side his power wagon, and the driver killed the engine. The heavy bass boom ceased instantly.

Burt arched one eyebrow as he saw Twitchell literally drop down out of the high vehicle. He looked about as happy to see Burt as Gummer was to see him.

"This is going to be a fun day," Burt grumbled to himself. His cohort in this adventure had shown up all right, but was dressed as he did every day. That meant, full suit, complete with tie, like he was on an official errand for the Department of the Interior.

Just as nobody in Perfection could figure out precisely why Burt was obsessed with explosives and weaponry, Burt could never figure out why Twitchell insisted on dressing in the most uncomfortable and impractical thing to wear in a desert.

After the two adversaries stood glaring maliciously at each other for a couple of seconds, Burt simply pointed at his power wagon. Twitchell keyed the remote to lock the Suburban doors, and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck without saying a word to the survivalist.

Burt, however, couldn't resist one final dig. "You finally did something smart."

Not bothering to look at Burt, Twitchell asked, "What do you want, Gummer? I'm not in a negotiating mood."

"I'm not looking for something."

That got the DOI agent turning to bestow a withering glance on him. "Okay, I'll bite. What did I do that was so smart?"

"You finally drove something sensible into the valley. What'd they do, reevaluate their car pool and decide Perfection was eating up too many light duty suspensions and transmissions."

"Noooo. The Crown Vic didn't start this morning. Dead battery, I'm guessing."

"You should leave it home when you come to visit us. The Suburban is more practical for what you do here anyway."

That got Twitchell looking more closely at Burt, trying to gauge if this was simply a serious discussion designed to be helpful or if an insult was buried in there somewhere. "I drive what they give me."

"Then use your own."

"Not a chance. This way I don't have to worry about wear and tear on my own vehicles. Besides, it'd raise my insurance rates sky high. I can't afford to have it insured for 'combat duty'."

Ever preoccupied with doing the most practical thing, Burt queried, "Oh? And what, pray tell _is_ it insured for if not heavy duty work."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Twitchell's mouth. "'Pleasure use'."

Totally missing the obvious implications, Burt shook his head in disgust. "What a waste."

"Oh, I'm not sure I'd agree with you on that."

After that initial conversation, they rode in silence for most of the morning; Burt with both gloved hands glued to the steering wheel, Twitchell leaning back, arms crossed, already sweating from the rising heat of the day but too stubborn to admit he was uncomfortable.

When they stopped for a water break, Burt offered him the baseball cap. Twitchell looked at it with distaste, and for a second, Burt thought he'd prefer a sun‑burned scalp to donning the supposedly offensive item. Fortunately, common sense won out. He took the proffered item, slapped it against his pants leg a couple of times as if to shake something 'nasty' out of it, and put it on.

As they both resumed their search, the radio hissed. "Burt, how's it going?"

"Nothing so far," Burt responded, brief as always.

"I'm not seeing much either. I saw some tracks, eight legs with five toes on each—"

"Sounds like what we're looking for, all right."

"But they're wind blown. If I remember what you've been teaching me, these aren't fresh tracks."

Subconsciously stroking the steering wheel, Burt stopped the truck, and glanced around their present location. One hand rubbed his moustache as he sat thinking. Finally, he keyed the 'talk' button again.

"Tyler, I can only suggest you continue on in your grid pattern, and we will do the same over here."

"Fine with me." There was more silence, then the familiar static. "Hey Twitch, how you holding up?"

Before Burt could even offer the radio to his 'partner', Twitchell snatched it out of his hand, and hollered, "I'm about to die from heat prostration, I'm getting a sunburn that not even SPF1000 will help, and I gotta take a leak so bad that if he rolls over one more big rock, I swear I'm gonna explode! So if you really care about my well-being, you should just tell him to turn around and let me off by my Suburban."

Both men could hear Rosalita giggling in the background, as Reed said,

"Suburban? What'd the DOI do? Finally give you something useful?"

Burt's expression flitted from annoyance to amusement. If the truth be told, he wouldn't have minded a 'pit stop' himself, though torturing Twitch another 30 minutes or so would make his own levels of discomfort tolerable.

And so he drove farther up one trail, taking them closer to the base of the cliffs. Not too far from where he'd made his first kill yesterday, Burt stopped at a acceptable spot for a rest break. It didn't take Twitchell two seconds to hop off and walk a short distance to avail himself of this opportunity to ease his pain. Burt didn't stray far from the truck to attend to his own needs and was already pulling out two rifles and magazines by the time Twitchell ambled over, looking vastly relieved.

Gummer held out the M-16 to the DOI agent; however, Twitchell just stared at the rifle as if he hadn't the foggiest idea what he was supposed to do with it.

"Take it."

"Why?"

"Because I want to have a look around…on foot…and you are no use to me if we get attacked and you are unarmed, that's why."

"You know what my philosophy is, Gummer? If you have a gun, the fates are surely gonna throw some friggin' monster in your path so you _have_ to use it. I think I'm better off without it."

"Nonsense. Now here," he said, shoving the rifle in Twitchell's unwilling arms. He gave a crash course on the use of the weapon, where the safety was, how to switch between semi and full auto, how to remove, reload, and replace the magazine.

"Get rid of the coat," he next ordered. "Don't bother asking why. Just do it." Then Burt gave him a spare vest which held additional loaded magazines. Though Twitchell couldn't zip the vest due to the differences in their girths, it remained functional if left open.

With that said and done, Gummer gathered up two canteens, affixed one to his tactical vest and slung the one with a strap over his shoulder. Without further discussion, he simply headed off in the direction that appealed to him at the moment.

Twitchell stood, stunned. No one had said anything the previous night about an extensive trek around the countryside on foot. He was sure of that much. "This wasn't part of our deal," Twitchell yelled after the retreating form of the survivalist.

A voice drifted back on the hot desert wind. "Afraid of a little exercise?"

"Gummer, you're one crazy S.O.B., you know that?" Twitchell hollered in a strained voice that sounded a tad bit shrill even to his own ears. He looked around at the high hills in front and the left of him, wondering if staying there by himself was such a wise thing to do. After calling the survivalist a few colorful and creative appellations under his breath, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and set out at a fast walk, hoping to catch his companion before the man disappeared over the next rise.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

With long, sure strides, Burt Gummer's ground-eating pace took him some distance from his truck. He didn't once turn to look back to see where his companion was. The panting and occasional cuss words drifting up from behind him, told Burt that Twitchell was both safe, if not physically comfortable, and still tagging along.

"Gummer, wait up, will ya?" Twitchell managed in between breathes. "What's your rush?"

Burt heard the sound of thumping footfalls and realized that the DOI agent was making an effort to close the gap. Worried that the clearly overweight and out-of-shape guy might have a heart attack on him, Burt did indeed stop his forward progress. He turned to watch the man lumbering up the slight incline.

When Twitchell finally got there, he bent over at the waist, hands on his upper thighs, gasping for breath.

Burt exhaled impatiently, glanced quickly at his watch, and without bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone, stated, "You know, '_Twitch_', you might consider spending your next vacation at my Survival School. Give me a couple of…months…and I'd whip you into shape. Build muscle, lose weight…increase stamina."

That got Twitchell bestowing a truly hateful look on him. "There's nothing wrong…with my stamina…thank you…very much." After a few more deep breaths, he stood up. "In fact, my _'stamina'_ was doing just fine until you started showing up on my doorstep."

"Excuses. Excuses." Burt said with a smug grin. "Think about it, I'll even cut you a break on my fee, just for the pleasure of having your 'company'.

"The day I decide to commit suicide is the day I'll say yes to your proposal and not a minute before."

"Suit yourself. Time to get moving." Without looking back, he moved out in more northern course, planning on walking a big square around where the injured Mixmastered scorpion had met its demise. But this time, thinking of the distance they'd have to travel, he slowed down his pace to one that was more suitable to Twitchell's shorter stride.

More frequent rest and water breaks slowed things down. They had a quick lunch of MREs which suited Burt just fine, but had Twitchell casting a jaundiced eye at the meal. "No wonder you always look like a war refugee," Twitchell muttered, tentatively tasting the fare provided.

"Do you really want me to prove these have kept me healthy, Twitchell," Burt questioned with a hard stare at the smaller, wider man.

"No. No." Twitchell said, raising one palm in surrender. "I believe you."

"Glad to see there is no argument because I was prepared to leave you in the dust again."

Twitchell only sighed and silently finished the meager meal, if only because he had no idea when the next one would come.

As the sun climbed high overhead, and the heat was reaching its zenith, Burt was growing irritable himself. Not from the oppressive rays of the sun so much as their lack of success with finding the creatures. Nothing was breaking the monotony of their adventure, not even the presence of El Blanco, who, for unexplained reasons, had been prowling around the northern end of the valley rather than where they currently were. By this point, Burt would have welcomed the graboid's presence if only because he seriously wanted to shoot something other than the thing truly annoying him…his reluctant and constantly complaining partner.

Flushed, sweating, and miserable, Twitchell had slogged on just behind Burt. The more his shirt plastered itself to his body, the more he kept wondering how the survivalist managed to remain so cool and comfortable. Shortly thereafter, Twitchell yanked off his silk tie, and tossed it aside. It remained forgotten, already resting beneath a lizard. Eventually, his Izod shirt, long since unbuttoned, was ditched, left to bake on a rock, leaving only his white t-shirt, which he yanked out of his dress slacks and left hanging down to his hips.

"That's not the best course of action." Burt told him, trying to sound reasonable. In the couple of years Twitchell had been showing up to manage the valley and the wildlife therein, Burt had never seen the man show up casually dressed during daylight hours, with one notable exception. That had been the day they had gone to look for the bacteria that had rolled forth from the underground lab months ago. And on that day he'd still had a light windbreaker on. "The longer sleeves would have kept you from getting a serious burn."

A fine mist of perspiration already covered Twitchell's forearms and he glanced at it a few seconds, frowning. He'd played golf for hours on end and had finally built up a decent tan but after looking at the slight reddening just beginning to show through the blond hairs, he began to wonder if Gummer, who was rarely wrong, didn't have a valid point. There were times when the days were 'crazy hot', days when he declined to go golfing if it meant taking him too far from the pleasantly temperature controlled clubhouse. Today was such a day. He looked back over his shoulder, realizing he didn't have the energy to back track. He wondered if Lisa still had that bottle of aloe vera gel in the refrigerator because he suspected he was going to need it by the time he got home.

For the first time that morning, he shot Gummer a pleading look, which the survivalist interpreted correctly.

"Okay, let's head back to my power wagon. I think I may have a light shirt in there you can use. Besides, I can tell that your canteen is almost empty. We'll need to refill before we get started again.

That last comment elicited a low, hoarse groan from Twitchell's parched throat. Not even 1:30 yet, and he was already feeling like it was long past the time to return home. Images of his pool calling his name flooded his mind. The thought of another 5 or 6 hours of tramping around out in this hell was more than he could bear. He didn't, however, give voice to his concerns. His own pride simply wouldn't let him admit that he wasn't much more than a liability to the tall, lanky survivalist.

Silently, Twitchell backed away from the rock he was leaning against, and took his place at Burt's side.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

As they got to within several hundred yards of their starting point, a rock falling from one of the lower cliffs drew Burt's attention. He went off to investigate, leaving an exhausted Twitchell to hunt for some shade.

The DOI agent found a nice spot under an outcropping that afforded some coolness from the desert sun and he slipped into the shadows, his back pressed against the cooler rock wall. He stood like that for a couple of minutes, watching Burt nosing around the base of the rock wall. From his vantage point, he couldn't see anything up there, nor were there any natural breaks in the cliff walls to hide anything near as a big as the scorpion/wolverine creatures were reputed to be.

Then he heard it, a noise just off to his right, emanating from behind a boulder twice as high as a man and at least four times as wide. The boulder itself butted the hillside, and what lay beyond was a mystery to him. A small canyon, Burt had stated, but just how small Burt hadn't elaborated. And Twitchell suddenly didn't want to find out. But he also didn't want to get trapped in this little alcove, so he cautiously moved forward, while swinging wide into the basin, thereby also bringing him closer to Gummer.

Just as he got a fairly clear view of the depth of the canyon, something large and dark scrabbled from behind the nearest boulder. Twitchell gulped audibly. "Holy freakin' hell," he murmured softly, as he began to slowly unsling his rifle, while just as slowly backpedaling away from the monstrosity. A part of him hoped the thing hadn't seen him but of course it had, and of course his prediction had come true. He'd come out here armed and now he was gonna have to use it, a prospect that didn't thrill him one bit. Fighting monsters was Burt's job.

The thing took a step in his direction, making an odd high-pitched keening noise.

"Burt?" Twitchell called out in a small tight voice in an octave almost as high as that of the creature slowly advancing on it. Adrenalin surged through his veins, giving him the strength to call out in a louder voice, "Gummer! I've got company, and I could sure use your assistance right about now!"

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that Gummer wasn't around, a sight that chilled him to the bone despite the sizzling sunlight scorching his skin. Quickly he checked the safety on the rifle to make sure it was disengaged, set the gun on full auto with trembling fingers, and sighted in on the snarling, needle-fanged beast as it advanced, more quickly now, on its multiple many-jointed limbs. Twitchell's quivering index finger settled itself on the trigger.

As it advanced, the creature's long tail-like appendage curled up over its back, exposing the venom-dripping stinger.

It didn't take more than that to get Twitchell's finger pressing the trigger. Never having fired full auto anything, he wasn't sure what to expect but the strangling grip on the gun kept the muzzle from lifting too much as a quick spray of bullets flew in the direction of the creature. It reared up and back slightly as if shocked by the impacts but didn't appear wounded by the assault.

Then he remembered Burt and Tyler telling him about the hard carapace. Shooting at the body was going to be a waste of ammo. Glancing back through the sights, and forcing his breathing to slow, he aimed at the enormous wolverine face as its mouth opening to issue forth a second keening call.

The second burst from the M-16 caught it, miraculously, full in the face, as it charged down on the pathetic human standing before it. Pain flared inside its skull, enraging it to the point of redoubling its speed. Its small eyes saw the figure retreat, heard the small human's high pitched cries of panic, and saw the two legged prey turn once again. There was more raucous noise, and more pain piercing its snout end.

After firing the second volley, Twitchell heard the distinctive and dismaying lack of sound. At first he thought the gun had jammed, then realized that it was merely empty. He had unloaded a full 30 round magazine into the beast before he saw it wobble. He was already groping for the second magazine in Burt's vest when he saw the thing fall, twitch a few times, and lay still.

Still gasping and trembling with terror, he heard the sound of scraping rocks, and cursed himself for not having reloaded immediately. As he whirled, he caught sight of Burt Gummer, rifle to shoulder, silently watching the downed creature for further movement.

Twitchell's right hand clamped over his heart in relief, feeling it thudding mightily against his palm. This was too much excitement for a lifetime, let alone a few minutes, he thought hastily to himself. The thrill of victory seemed too obscure a concept for him to grasp in the midst of the overwhelming thoughts regarding how close he had come to getting himself killed. He used one dusty-streaked forearm to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes. It didn't help matters much but at least gave him something to do to take his mind off of what had just happened.

From behind him he heard footsteps approach and a hand pat him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Twitchell. You have just joined the auspicious ranks of fellow monster hunters."

When Twitchell finally found his voice, it was just to mutter, "Took an entire magazine to do it."

"Told you they had hard exoskeletons," Burt told him.

"Yes. Yes, you did. And if there are any more of those things around, that means I've only got enough to kill another couple of them before I'm out of ammo."

"Pick your target a bit better. Aim for the mouth or snout. That seems to be the least protected. Short bursts. Understand. If you think you're wasting too much ammo, switch back to firing it semi-auto."

"Look Gummer, I'm outta here. Facing off against one of those things was one too many for me! You don't need a handful of magazines, you need the whole friggin' National Guard in here."

"Sure, you could call them," Gummer conceded calmly, as he rested his own weapon, muzzle skyward, against his upper arm. "But think of the overall costs of doing something like that. Someone's gotta "pay" for it, and that someone will ultimately be…your boss. Or his boss perhaps." He paused to let that thought sink in. "Why bother calling in all that firepower until you're sure we can't handle it?"

It was then that the whole issue became moot. Another beige striped, fang-mouthed, eight legged monstrosity scrabbled from behind the distant rock. A second one joined it, then a third, until five in all were visible.

Burt didn't know if the sound of gun fire had attracted the new creatures or if the high pitched vocalization had done it, but these new arrivals were certainly in an antagonistic mood, tails already raised, curling over their hard-shelled backs.

Moving at a considerable pace for their size, the beasts bore down on the two men. Burt swung his rifle into position, while waiting on Twitchell to load in a fresh magazine. Instead, he saw the smaller, more portly man, bolt toward the general place where the power wagon was waiting. Burt figured it was more than a quarter mile away, and knew Twitchell would never make it before the creatures caught up to them. But he didn't want to see the guy get caught in the open either. As primitive as the beasts were, they would probably split up if the humans went in two directions. He soon saw he was right, and so his feet grew wings as he dashed after the fleeing DOI agent.

To Gummer's surprise, Twitchell poured on an amazing display of speed, showing off a 'kick' worthy of any Olympic sprinter, to the point where the long-legged survivalist actually had to work hard to close the gap between them. But as he expected, Twitchell's short burst of speed didn't last. As he drew up along side the heavily panting front-runner, he saw the power wagon come into view. But he knew this wasn't a viable solution. A quick glimpse over his shoulder revealed their attackers almost upon them. Even if they did get to the truck, he'd never get it turned around in time to keep those stingers from plunging into the open cab of his truck.

"Twitchell! Not there! No time!" At the same moment he said this, he recalled the curved hillside not far from his vehicle. "We gotta get to higher ground. Maybe they can't climb quickly, and we can mow them down easier from there."

Burt snagged Twitchell's right bicep just above the elbow and dragged him toward the hillside. Together, they scrabbled up the loose gravel-like surface, slipping and sliding as they fought for handholds. Twitchell, palms ripped and bleeding, managed to gain a ledge high enough to be out of easy reach of the 'wolverines' with Burt right beside him. The beasts paused at the base of the hillside, growling angrily and began their ascent. Just as with the humans, they had to work hard to gain any elevation, but they were as persistent as they were hungry, and they forged upward.

"Reload," Burt commanded, and for once Twitchell moved to obey without hesitation, pulling a fully loaded magazine from the vest pocket. "You take the two to the right. I don't think I need to point out that you shoot at the one closest…" He paused as Twitchell gave him a nasty look. "Ready?" He watched as the man had inserted the new magazine and chambered the first round.

In unison, they fired. Bullets flew at incredible velocities toward the attacking creatures, forcing them to lose ground, as the impacts pushed them toward the ground, but they were persistent. Both men, side by side, emptied their first magazine, yielding 'two down but three to go'. Burt dropped his mag first, replaced it, and started to fire again. His target was moving around so much, sliding and advancing, that it wasn't presenting the needed 'easy target'. He emptied that magazine and part of another before it finally went down.

To his left, Twitchell was firing and reloading as fast as his now-steady hands could move. Burt had expected this reaction. People under extreme duress often grew quite controlled in the fact of sure death, as if their minds shut down their emotions to the point where the only thing left was the task before them, no matter how dangerous it might be.

Green blood spurted from a severed limb on one of Twitchell's targets, where a volley of M-16 bullets eventually wore down the carapace and snapped the limb off. But that was a huge waste of bullets. Unfortunately the face shots weren't having the desired effects either. The creatures weren't snarling and snapping anymore, they were trying to climb and not presenting the choicer spots.

"I'm almost out," Twitchell called.

Burt grunted in affirmation. As always, he'd been counting, and knew this. He also knew that his own ammo supply was soon going to be exhausted and there were still two creatures to go. "Then make 'em count!"

In a matter of a minute or two, he heard, "That's it. You got any more?"

"In my truck, yeah!"

"Fine. Keep them occupied."

Burt drew himself up to his full height. "What the hell are you planning, Twitchell?"

"You do what I just asked, and I'll get more ammo."

"You can't…" he started to say but Twitchell was already moving off, along the ledge. Without further thought, he began firing at the farther of the two creatures, the one Twitchell should have dispatched. He tried to annoy it enough to keep it focused on him. The tactic worked. Now he had both of the remaining beasts clamoring up the incline toward him with only the force of his bullets forcing them to lose ground.

A quick sideways glimpse showed him the figure of Twitchell going as far left as he could then half sliding, half falling down the rocky hill. Once at the bottom, he made a hasty dash to the truck without looking back, trusting Burt to do his job.

At that moment, Burt realized the keys were still in his power wagon. He had never entertained fears that someone would try to steal the vehicle, and hadn't pondered taking them. But now, with Twitchell this close to 'safety', he wouldn't have put it past the man to hop in the driver's seat and take off. 'Looking for help', he'd tell everyone later.

But what happened next was far more horrible than that. In his search for the ammo boxes, Twitchell had come across the unzipped case of the Burt's Barrett .50. Gummer saw him lift the long heavy weapon from the bed of the truck. He saw Twitchell check the magazine for ammo, which, fortunately for him at that moment, turned out to be fully loaded, and pull down the bipod legs.

The DOI agent then placed the barrel, with bipod extended, on the hood of his truck, donned a full size set of ear protectors, pulled the protective covers off both ends of the scope, and pointed the muzzle in his general direction.

For a second Burt forgot to fire his weapon. But the closest creature was demanding his attention, and he fired off the last of his ammo into it, leaving the thing laying in a heap midway up the slope. Burt cursed aloud, pulled his Desert Eagle and tried to drop the remaining monster with what he had in his magazine. However, his efforts proved to be futile.

As Burt planted his back up against the rock wall behind him, he saw the muzzle of the Barrett pointed at him, and his future flashed before eyes. He was about to become dead meat. He was going to die, blown in half by his own beloved Barrett, or stung to death when Twitchell missed. Either way, his demise wasn't going to be pleasant, but part of him would rather have faced the stinger. At least that way he wouldn't have to face the indignity of meeting his maker because he had been shot by his own weapon. For one of the rare times in his life, Burt felt his heart drop into his belly, which cramped painfully.

The creature was almost upon him now but he only had eyes for the man who held his life in those incapable hands.

Even at this distance, he saw the muzzle point right at him, and saw Twitchell's finger slide over the trigger as his other hand took off the safety. He didn't bother to ponder how the guy knew how to do this. Dumb luck probably. But not lucky for him.

The tip of the barrel, seemingly focused on his chest, didn't stray from his general direction. "NO! Twitchell! Lower! _Lower_! You're aiming too high!" The muzzle didn't dip one inch. Either the man couldn't hear him or was choosing to ignore the suggestion. Sweat began to stream from his pores.

Taking a deep breath, and tightly clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes and waited for the final explosion that would herald the end of his existence.

Just as the creature's mouth and stinger were almost within striking distance, he heard the booming retort of the Barrett, and suddenly he felt his body drenched in hot, sticky gore.

Quickly prying his eyes open, he examined the length of his body, covered in monster guts, and blood. Thankfully, not a bit of it belonged to him. The breath he held released itself in a loud whoosh of relief, and he smiled broadly in spite of himself. Below him, he saw Twitchell still standing beside the Barrett, an equally bright smile lighting up his face.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

When Burt finally slid down the incline and got to his power wagon, he found Twitchell waiting for him, arms casually crossed, looking supremely pleased with himself.

Further praise should have been forthcoming, Burt knew, but the risks taken overshadowed his desire to be kind. Instead, he grumpily stated, "You took an awful chance. You could have killed me, you know."

Twitchell shrugged and gave another self-satisfied smirk. "Could have, and for a second, just a brief second, mind you, I was tempted, but I didn't."

As if deeply offended, Burt snatched the Barrett off the hood of his truck, and lightly stroked it. "Poor thing," he spoke affectionately. "I promise I'll never let that bad man touch you again."

Twitchell slid his aviator sunglasses down on his nose, and gave Burt a look that clearly stated, 'You are a very sick person.' He took a unhurried drink from the water container, and located one of Burt's spare desert camo shirts. While he had no illusions about it fitting in the waist, he was a bit surprised to discover it was also a bit too tight across the shoulders. Sighing deeply, he tossed it back to into the bed of the truck.

While he was doing that, Burt jogged back to the hill and retrieved all the empty magazines, blew as much dust off of them as he could, and returned back to the truck.

Once the Barrett and the other rifles were safely stowed away, he reloaded his Eagle, and refilled the empty rifle magazines with Twitchell's help. They both got into the power wagon, whereupon Burt promptly took the opportunity to fill in Tyler on the situation. He did not, however, tell him any more than to just gloss over the highlights…that the creatures had been dispatched with alacrity, and that they were heading back to the original spot where they were first sighted to see if there were any more of them or if a den or nest could be located.

"You find anything over by you?"

"Nah, clean as a whistle. Jodi checked the monitor and said that El Blanco is still nowhere near here either. So it's been pretty quiet." The radio went silent for a few seconds then crackled to life again, "Hey, wasn't that Betsy I heard earlier? You finally get a chance to fire her on the 'real deal'?"

Burt looked at his current partner, frowning with frustration. "Affirmative, that was the Barrett. And yes, 'she' did her job well."

He did not mention, however, the pitched battle or that the Barrett had been in hands other than his own. Nor did he discuss ending up on the business end of said weapon . He figured Twitchell would have more than ample opportunity to gloat about the event later, and he simply didn't want to discuss it before then.

The ride back to the canyon had barely started when Twitchell said, somewhat petulantly, "You could have at least said, 'Thank you.'

"For what?"

"You're kidding, right? You want me to spell it out?"

Burt forced his tone to stay calm and rational. "You got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it."

"Oh? And what is that supposed to mean? You pick up a strange weapon, with sights you aren't accustomed to, and you blast something from a distance that could just as easily have killed me or missed entirely, and you don't consider yourself lucky?"

"No."

Burt knew he was going to regret asking the next question, but he did it anyway. "Okay, fine. Why wasn't that a fortuitous shot."

"Because it's not the first time I've fired a Barrett."

That made Burt stomp on the brake hard enough to bring the truck to a sliding stop, nearly pitching Twitchell into the windshield in the process. Before his passenger could complain, Burt pulled off his own sunglasses and pinned Twitchell to his seat with a piercing look. "I'm listening."

"Look, there isn't much to tell. I mentioned to my neighbor that you had this big honkin' monster gun. He asked what kind, and I told him. He said he'd just bought one himself, and if I ever wanted to fire it, I could go to the range with him. I took him up on the offer twice. Fired off a couple of rounds…"

Burt shot him another disbelieving glare.

Realizing his cavalier attitude wasn't working quite as believably as he'd hoped, Twitchell amended, "Well, okay, more than a couple. Maybe like 10 or so." Then he suddenly started to snicker. "You know, it just occurred to me. Tyler may have 'had' Betsy first, but I got to her next." And with that said, he chuckled again.

Gummer felt his blood begin to boil at the insult to his cherished Barrett. It was only with an incredible amount of effort that he brought his temper under control. "So," he said slowly, "what does this guy do for a living that he felt he needed a Barrett in his arsenal?"

"Hmm? Oh, he's our mailman."

That brought the power wagon to another sliding stop. "Your _mailman?_" he asked incredulously.

"Please. No lousy jokes about 'going postal' okay?"

With lips moving but no sound coming out, Burt sent the truck once more on its way. He had thought about going back for Twitchell's shirt to help protect him from further insult to his skin, but decided the little weasel could suffer.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

The trip to the box canyon took no time at all. Burt parked near the entrance, and simply gestured for Twitchell to get a rifle. Less cocky than a few minutes ago, the smaller man retrieved the weapon, but fumbled a bit with checking it, as if he was already anticipating a repeat performance of their frenzied battle.

In fact, as Gummer walked into the canyon, cautiously as always, Twitchell was somewhat behind him and looking around everywhere, clearly expecting something to pounce on him. When it didn't happen, and the canyon floor looked clear, he sighed audibly in relief, and let the muzzle of the weapon drop downard.

The two men cat-walked over the terrain, looking for any reason why the creatures were inhabiting that particular location. Burt's well-trained eyes scanned not just the floor of the narrow canyon but also the relatively steep walls all the way up to the lip of the cliff. They found a huge number of footprints, coming and going, this way and that, but the ground was so marked up it was hard to tell if there had been an arrival or departure point.

Unconsciously Burt's gloved finger stroked his mustache a couple of times, his features set in deep thought. The answer was here, he felt sure of it.

"See anything?" a hesitant voice came from just off his right shoulder.

"Do you?" he replied, not without a hint of sarcasm.

"Nah. Maybe it was a fluke that they were all together in this area. Let's get on out of here."

Burt turned to face him and poked long finger into the other man's stomach. "And is that what your gut is telling you?"

"Yeah."

"And is that in a purely physical level or an instinctive level." The question made Twitchell pause to ponder it. Gummer was obviously asking him to fathom something more than just his immediately bodily needs, and to listen to what his ethereal sixth sense was whispering to him. So he 'listened', and didn't like what he heard. Gummer saw it in the way a frown flitted across his face.

"What?"

Twitchell looked around the canyon again as if seeing it for the first time. "Okay. If you gotta know, I keep feeling like this freakin' nightmare isn't over and that we're standing at ground zero just before it explodes. And I don't mind telling you I don't like the feeling one bit."

Grimacing at the loud screaming of his own well-honed instincts, Burt nodded. "I'm in agreement with you, much as I hate to admit it." Reaching out, he put his hand on Twitchell's shoulder and nudged him forward. Twitchell resisted and Burt pushed a bit harder. Surrender didn't happen immediately, but eventually the DOI agent found himself in the very epicenter of the box canyon, standing side by side with the tense and wary survivalist.

"Oh man, I'm getting very weird vibes from this," the smaller man muttered as his head swiveled in every direction.

Gummer merely grunted in agreement.

The survivalist's course eventually took them closer to the far canyon wall, when Twitchell, who was about two paces to his left, gave a sharp yelp and disappeared from sight. When Burt pivoted around, gun already aiming at the ground, he saw Twitchell, looking panicked but not in pain, struggling inside a hole, buried up to his waist in dirt and dried roots. He was trying to bring the muzzle of his gun down, and realizing what he was about to do, Burt yelled, "Freeze, don't even think about it. You'll probably just shoot your foot off, and believe me, I have no desire to lug your sorry ass back to the power wagon."

"Damn!" was all the DOI agent could mutter, as he tried to extricate himself but it was a tight fit, and he wasn't having an easy time of it.

Smiling, Burt offered a hand which Twitchell at first refused, but he eventually took it when he realized he wasn't going to get free on his own. Together, with Burt hauling up and Twitchell using his free hand, they got him free, looking disheveled and totally filthy, but none the worse for wear.

While Twitchell sat on the ground, trying to calm his pounding heart, Burt made a closer inspection of the hole. "Graboid made, I'd guess. It's big enough for it. My guess is it's probably very old and the ground above it just thin enough to let it cave in when you put your weight on it." He pulled a flashlight out, lay down on his belly, and peered down into it. The extent of his inspection was only about 4 or 5 feet back but what he saw was what he'd expected. A large diameter circular hole, big enough for an average size graboid to have plowed it's way through, with nothing else visible beyond that point. The giant subterranean worm had probably worked his way up here, found nothing to his liking, circled around, and left the saw way he came in.

"Okay, I think that's it for now. I'm not seeing anything else unusual around here." Once again, he offered Twitchell a hand, which the other man stubbornly refused.

Twitchell raised himself a bit unsteadily to his feet, feeling a little light-headed given what the sun and dehydration were doing to him, but his step grew stronger as he realized they were finally done with this portion of the assignment. He was already looking forward to a good meal, a hot shower, to collapse on the soft plush sofa, and maybe even to beg and plead with his wife for a long, long, massage, though not necessarily in that order. He figured he'd make his decision once he got safely through his own front door.

As they drove, Burt gave a 'sitrep' to Tyler, whose own excursion around the valley had been far less exciting, which, in this case, had been exhilarating news in and of itself. They discussed making another foray on the following morning, just to be sure they'd wiped out all the creatures, a task Tyler agreed was necessary, and since he'd already done a thorough job in his sector, he volunteered to assist the survivalist, which pleased both Burt and Twitchell enormously.

The four people met by the DOI agent's vehicle, where Twitchell promptly took his leave, keyed the ignition, turned on the A/C full blast, and roared off in the general direction of Bixby.

"Some day, huh?" Rosalita asked after noting the physical state Twitchell left in.

"You have no idea!" Burt stated flatly, but allowed a tight smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

"Well, why don't you meet us at Jodi's and I'll buy you beer while you tell us _all_ about it." She bestowed an impish smile on him, as she began anticipating gathering fuel with which to burn Twitchell the next time he came to harass them.

She totally missed Burt's wry grin turn suddenly downward. Oh he'd fill her in all right, but not with _all_ the details.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Several days later, Twitchell sat and squirmed uncomfortably in the executive office style chair set up across the large mahogany desk from his boss, J. Thomas Crane.

He hated these meetings. Hated them with a passion that already rivaled his loathing for El Blanco. Both worm and boss had been responsible for his extended stay in what he occasionally called "Pain in the Ass Land." However, dealing with both of them was part of the territory, so he sat and waited, albeit impatiently.

The trick of submitting a perfectly written and creatively crafted report about the incident in Perfection hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped. Twitchell had intentionally been very vague in one area for a good reason; he didn't want to get 'volunteered' for similar missions in the future, thank you very much. This vague recounting of his involvement in the escapade was not, however, what had led Crane to call the agent into his intimidating presence.

Once more Twitchell sank a bit farther down in the seat. The problem with these face to face meetings, which invariably made him cringe, was the fact that Crane wasn't happy with pat answers. His boss usually wound up asking him questions he was ill-equipped to answer…not because he lacked the skills and knowledge to do his job, but because whenever Mixmaster was involved, nothing was written in stone. To put it simply, there were no cut and dried answers to give in may of those situations, just as there had been none for the latest mission. But Crane, being the typical supervisor, chose to ignore that one indisputable fact.

"So, did Mixmaster leave the protected environment or not?"

Twitchell felt his innards cramp unpleasantly. "I don't know." That answer popped out before he had time to craft one more tactful or upbeat.

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'. I don't want to hear that. I have to meet with my superiors by the end of this week. They're going to want better answers than "I don't know."

Gulping audibly, Twitchell fished for words that would mollify his supervisor. None were immediately forthcoming, so he ultimately settled on restating what he did know.

"Sir, it is impossible to tell. Yes, the creature is dead. Yes, we believe they are all dead. The one that got out did contaminate the environment on _this_ side of the pass, but by all appearances we got it taken care of. The blood was incinerated, just as my report detailed. The carcass didn't decompose on the Bixby side either. Anything more than that would only be speculation. Such speculation would only foment unnecessary panic. All we can do is take a wait and see approach and not waste too much manpower or tax dollars trying to handle some problem that might never materialize."

Crane sat back in his leather chain, and steepled his fingers over his flat stomach. "Yes, yes, you're correct about the manpower and tax dollar issue. Gummer and Reed will keep monitoring the situation over there, right?

"That's right. And you can have complete faith in them. If any situation needs emergency attention, they're the best there is. Gummer is already working on monitoring devices to watch activity in hopes of preventing similar, uh, events like the one we just had."

Nodding his head, Crane said, "Sounds reasonable. Very well, Twitchell, I'm through with you for now. Continue to keep me posted."

With that, the DOI agent literally hopped to his feet, and made a hasty retreat before his boss had a change of mind.

In Perfection valley, not far below the surface, in the heart of a box canyon, lay the lengthy subterranean tunnel marking the passage of a graboid. Sunlight filtered in through the recently man-made hole, providing just an added touch of warmth through the next 30 feet or so of tunnel. It was just enough to touch the white, pulsing, circular lumps that completely filled that portion of the tunnel. As the sun's rays baked the hard dry ground, life swirled and grew within them, gaining strength and size as they prepared to meet life on the surface one day in the not so distant future.


End file.
